


Hot Girl Summer

by alisdas



Series: occupation: brat [3]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Loss of Virginity, Older Man/Younger Woman, Pet Names, Praise Kink, Smut, reader is a brat but shes a SUB AND THATS THAT, steve rogers knows how to eat a girl out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 16:09:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20177077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisdas/pseuds/alisdas





	Hot Girl Summer

It is July -- the second month of summer, the month of his birthday and the Independence Day of the country he’s fought tooth and nail for -- and Steve has already had it up to fucking  _ here _ .

The days are hot and balmy, humidity hanging in the air like an invisible cloud that even Tony’s top of the range ACs can’t seem to get rid of. It stays on you like a second skin, and for once Steve thinks that being frozen in an iceberg isn't all that bad. 

Staying inside is a sweaty hell but going out is even worse, and so he resigns himself to at  _ least _ a few hours inside before having to go out – but watching movies and sketching in this heat makes him restless, so he hits the gym. Every minute on the treadmill feels like an hour, every punch a thousand. His arms and legs ache to Hades and back but a glance out the window at the beaming sun is enough to have him counting his blessings. 

"Hey, we're going up to the pool. Wanna come with?" 

Ah, yes. Another tortuous aspect of these godforsaken, sun-fraught, clarion-skied days:  _ Hot Girl Summer _ . 

He has no idea what it is  _ exactly _ or why this summer  _ specifically _ is the time where you should be at your bougiest, but here you are, dressed in a hot pink bikini and carrying a Disney princess towel over your shoulder, dolly skin darkened under the sun's rays and hair piled haphazardly atop your head. 

(And, God, he should be concentrating on not tripping over his own feet and making a fool of himself, but his eyes have a mind of their own – trailing over your tanning shoulders and perfectly done makeup, over the glossy pout upon your lips and the thin yellow straps holding up your–) 

"Why do you have makeup on if you're going to the pool?" He pants, switching the treadmill off and jogging as it begins to slow.

You shrug, shameless in the way your eyes travel over his biceps. "Hot Girl Summer, Stevie. Fashion over function."

He gulps down his bottle of water, squinting in confusion for the nth time.  _ What is that even supposed to mean?  _

"Are you coming or not?" You say, folding your arms right underneath your–  _ Fuck. _ "Wanda's waiting for me." 

"Maybe later," he mutters. Maybe it's just the adrenaline going to his head, the allure of a post-workout high clouding his judgement but God help him – he doesn't think he can be around you right now. Dressed like that and dripping wet– "Yeah, maybe later, doll."

You shoot him a surprised look, glancing over your shoulder. "Look at you! Calling me doll without checking if anyone's around. You're getting ballsy, Stevie." Then, with another peek around, you lean in and place a peck on his lips -- he’d usually balk, tell you that it wasn’t safe to kiss him out in the open -- but his heart is so full, and he can’t help the goofy smile that lights up his face as a result. 

“FRIDAY, do us a favour and delete that footage?”

“Of course, Captain.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “Always so  _ diligent _ . See you later, handsome.”

He shakes his head, bottom lip caught between his teeth in an effort to stave off the smile threatening to destroy his composed exterior. It’s only when you’ve disappeared around the corner and he’s left alone that he realises there’s a very _uncomfortable, _tight tent in his pants. _Goddamnit_.

So you can clearly see how Hot Girl Summer must have been specifically created to make Steve Rogers hot, bothered, and in a state of perpetual arousal through the summer. It’s a never ending whirlwind of glittery eyelids ( _ “It’s Fenty,” you say one day, slipping a deep lapis lazuli shade onto your skin. “Only the best.” _ ) and neon thigh-highs, Daisy dukes and satin slip dresses, heart-shaped sunglasses -- and those wretched inch-long acrylic nails that he secretly loved, sparkling pink and yellow and gold in the sun. 

And Steve -- well, he prides himself on his ability to think clearly, to see without bias (in most cases), but his brain short circuits and fizzles out the second he sees you. It’s like his central nervous system operates at 400% capacity at the sight of tanned shoulders and highlighted cheekbones and those adorable socks with the Japanese cartoon egg on them. 

He's fine with kisses and cuddles --  _ more  _ than fine. He could live the rest of his life with your lips against his and your arms wrapped around his waist, ear pressed above his heart -- but he’s a man in his prime. 

Even  _ his  _ thoughts can’t help but darken with lust, take a turn down a dirtier road. And he feels shame weigh him down with each notion -- each deliciously painful image of bare, sweating skin, each mind-wrangling thought of saccharine gasps and shuddering moans. Even the simple idea of--

Steve lets out a frustrated grunt, weights falling to the ground. His mind is racing and he has no doubt that his cheeks are flushed -- and he has a feeling that his shortness of breath isn’t quite from the exercise. He needs a shower. Preferably one that’s bordering on ice-cold -- if not to subdue the hardness in his pants then to stifle his equally as annoying thoughts.

(It doesn’t work.)

His mind lingers on you. You and him were like two opposite ends of the same spectrum: where he was stern, you were easygoing. Where he was respectful, you were cheeky and borderline bratty – and that used to irritate the shit out of him, back when he hadn't even begun to process what he felt for you and simply turned to annoyance. You were cute and sassy and he had slipped into that routine of hidden kisses and watching movies in your room, asking FRIDAY to withhold his whereabouts when he was with you. 

If he was ever going to…  _ fondue _ with you, he didn't want to have to hide what he felt for you. He wouldn't be able to, he thinks, because even now he finds himself on the brink of slipping up and kissing you on the cheek or wrapping a hand around your waist. One time he actually  _ had  _ slipped up and kissed your forehead -- which was strange enough, because you  _ definitely _ weren’t close enough for that in the eyes of the team -- so he simply had to go around and kiss  _ everyone  _ on the forehead. Scott had heart palpitations.

And what would the team think? You were their baby, and he was the  _ man out of time _ . He knew exactly what they'd think when they found out, and he needed them to know that it wasn't what they thought. The need to protect and care for you stretched much farther than the need for sexual gratification. You were his darling, now and forever after – he wasn’t sure if the team would quite understand that, though.

He sighs, pulling his shirt off as he prepares to take a quick shower. What’s that saying?  _ The good are never easy, the easy never good _ . 

X

“This is cute,” he hears you chirp ahead, rubbing a silken dress between your fingers. It’s the colour of obsidian, ornamented with lace and ruffles. He imagines it wrapped around your body, glinting in the pearly light of this high-end boutique that sells suits and dresses at prices that made his depression-era mind crumple and wheeze. 

It’d look beautiful on you -- but everything did, didn’t it? And he wasn’t being biased -- Peter once called you  _ the Rihanna of the team, _ because apparently you could make anything look good. Steve didn't quite understand the reference, but...

Natasha hums, sipping a coffee. “Cute, but not what we’re going for. It's a gala, not a funeral.”

He can practically hear the pout in your voice. “But I  _ want  _ it.”

(He wants to remain stern and firm, tell you that you can’t have the damn dress just because you want it -- but then you sigh in that wistful way, and he knows that he’d fork over the money to buy you the damn dress if you asked him, pretty and pouting and eyes wide and shimmering. He’d buy you the whole store if you really, truly wanted it.)

Natasha scoffs, flicking your forehead, and Steve realises just how weak he may just be for your whiny voice and wrinkled-up nose. He makes a note to resist wanting to buy in to your every whim next time, but even so, there’s a little voice in the back of his head that knows damn well that it’s not gonna happen.

“Okay, Capsicle," Tony says, suddenly appearing from nowhere, "You're looking  _ awfully _ confused for someone who looks great in 3 piece suits."

Steve rolls his eyes, slinging the first suit he sees from it's hanger. "I'll take this one."

Tony smiles wickedly, and Steve suddenly realises that Bucky and Sam are missing. "Oh no, Rogers. You'll be joining the other two."

So that's how Steve finds himself in the fitting room of  _ La Petite Mort _ , a fussy old lady measuring his arms and legs and chest and waist, holding colour swatches up to his ruddy skin and golden hair and mumbling in rushed French under her breath. He can understand most of it – she's complaining about how his waist and shoulders are so disproportionate – and he can't find it in himself to be offended because he's been reminded of late European nights spent under the stars, only the sound of bombs and rowdy folk songs sung around the fire to lull him to sleep–

"Wait here," the woman says, zipping out of the door with her assistant in tow. Bucky and Sam, who'd been measured just before him, lounge boredly on the couch opposite the raised dais he stands on. All three of them were reduced to wearing their underwear and vests. 

"I don't see why I need another one o' these," Bucky grumbles, combing a stray strand of hair with his fingers. "I already have one."

"No, you don't," Sam says, elbows on his knees. "Last time you wore it you got stabbed in the thigh and the ribs, idiot. Tore through the entire thing."

"Well, I wouldn't have gotten  _ stabbed _ if you were paying  _ attention _ to–" 

"Oh, of  _ course– _ " 

Steve's about to break up the bickering when there's a knocking on the door. "Boys?" 

It's you. Heart jumping, he clears his throat. "Yeah?" 

There's no verbal answer – the duck-egg blue door simply opens with an elegant click, and you peek your head around it, smiling mischievously. "Hi there."

"Sup, sweet thing?" 

"Hey, kid." 

Steve simply gives you a nod. "What're you doing here?" 

You shrug. "Needed some second opinions."

And you step out from behind the door, and –  _ fuck _ – Steve stops breathing for a few second. He can feel Bucky watching his reaction –  _ punk _ – but he can't find it within himself to care because  _ Holy Jesus, _ you look… ethereal. It's the only way to describe you, really – swathed in gauzey, peachy pink tulle, pastel blue and peach flowers forming a bodice. Diamonds glint in the midday sun, and when you twist your torso back and forth the fabric moves with you like water.

Sam whistles. "Damn! Look at you!" 

You giggle, and Bucky follows suit with a compliment of how you look like a Disney princess – and then your eyes shoot to him, and you raise an eyebrow expectantly. 

(He tries not to think about the fact that he's only wearing his underclothes.)

"Well?" You ask, pouting. "Aren't you gonna tell me I look pretty, Stevie?" 

He swallows. Bucky's smirking like an idiot, and Steve feels like he's fighting a war on two fronts. "You look amazing, darling." 

Your grin widens. "This is a definite yes, then. Thanks, guys. I'll get going."

Steve is distracted for the rest of the fitting – distracted enough for it to fly by, and before he knows it he's back in the Compound with a growing need to have you in his arms and a steadily growing hatred for hot weather. 

"Suits and dresses will be delivered by tomorrow," Tony says, not looking up from his phone. "Gala starts at 9 sharp – be there, please. And try not to arm yourselves to hell and back."

(Bucky purses his lips at the pointed look shot his way.)

"Movie?" Sam asks once Tony has sped off, tilting his head towards the golden-haired supersoldier. 

"Nah," Steve declines, glancing over at where you're disappearing into the elevator, "Uh, headache. Might just go lay down."

Sam makes a quip about how his supersoldier serum must finally be wearing off if he's starting to feel unwell, but he lets him go without suspicion. Bucky accepts Sam's offer instead, glancing over his shoulder with a shit-eating smile that makes Steve roll his eyes. 

20 minutes later he's standing at your door. To avoid suspicion he had waited a few extra minutes, but it doesn't seem to matter. Most of the hallways are empty, anyways. 

Two knocks. A pause, and then another two knocks. A little indication that it's him at the door – and usually you rush to open it, but there's a muffled thud from inside and a shuffling of fabrics, and he's left staring at the plastic gems on your door for a few extra seconds as you call out  _ wait a minute!  _

When you finally open the door you're breathless, grinning up at him. "Hey there."

He raises a brow suspiciously, as he walks into your room. "What were you doing, you little troublemaker?" 

"Nothing," you chirp, standing on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "Just trying something on. Do you wanna see?" 

He collapses onto your bed, arms behind his head and legs stretched out comfortably. "Go on, sweetheart."

You disappear into your bathroom with a triumphant noise, swiping a bag filled with pastel tissue paper as you passed. He hadn't even noticed it – but in the pink, glittery bomb that was your room it tends to be difficult to notice anything out of the ordinary. 

He hears you humming to yourself as you change, and those intrusive thoughts return to hit him at full force. With the sound of every piece of fabric that hits the floor, he finds it harder to dispel them – thoughts of the shape of you and how you'd feel under his hands, the sensations he could introduce you to–

His eyebrow twitches.  _ Shut up, punk.  _

"Ta-da!" You exclaim, jumping excitedly in front of him. "Wicked, right?" 

Wicked, indeed. The dress – if he can call the garment that – is made of white leather and diamond studs. Various bands of leather wrap around your shoulders and torso, and it ends just at mid-thigh. An area of empty space at your bust ensures that a good amount of cleavage is free to be ogled at. 

Steve almost chokes. 

"W-where did you get that?" He asks, sitting up. 

"The boutique." You shrug, turning to show him the back. "Turns out they have a more casual section! It's cute, right?" 

"Adorable," he says, swallowing dryly. "Why did you get it, again?" 

You look at him, deadpan. "Hot Girl Summer, Steve. Obviously." Then, more unsure: "You don't like it?" 

"No, no!" He rushes to explain. "I love it, really. You look… amazing. Better than amazing."

(There's no mistaking the glint of restrained hunger that shines in his baby blues.)

You shuffle back and forth, suddenly looking very nervous. He straightens up instinctively, waiting for you to speak, and… 

"I've been thinking," you say. (He tries to stop his heart from sinking. In his experience, nothing good ever comes from  _ I've been thinking _ .) "I mean, for a long time. Well, not for a long, long time but, like, long enough, I guess – and I don't want you to think I'm doing this on a whim, I've really,  _ really _ thought about it–" 

"C'mon, sweetheart," he urges, smiling nervously. He tugs you gently towards him by your hips, peering up at you. "You're scaring me." 

"I want to be with you, Steve," you say quietly. 

"You  _ are _ with me, darling," he says, eyebrows furrowing. 

" _ Steve _ ," you say. You place a hand on his cheek, leaning in until you're just centimetres apart. "I want to  _ be _ with you."

"You want to – be with –  _ oh _ ." His cheeks flush as soon as the meaning clicks – but his elation is short lived, and his smile flickers. "_____, darling..." 

"What?" You say, lips turning downwards. "You… don't want to be with me? I know I'm inexperienced and–"

"That's not it," he says, grasping your hand that you were slowly, hurtfully retracting. "I love you, doll, you know that – I just don't want to… you know, take advantage of you."

Your eyes narrow. "You're not taking  _ advantage _ of me. I've thought about this for weeks, Steve. I trust you and I love you and I… I want it to be you."

He's quiet for what seems like forever after that – simply staring at you, eyebrows furrowed and deep in thought. The nerves that wound tight in your stomach only get tighter the longer he stays silent. 

Then, softly, he speaks. "You really want it to be me?" 

You nod, smiling uncharacteristically shyly. "Yeah."

And he smiles, that bright Steve Rogers smile that makes babies laugh and the sun shine – and he pulls you down towards him by the back of your neck, meeting you halfway in a sweet, loving kiss that makes you want to melt against him. 

And then you're deepening it, running your tongue against his and threading a hand in his hair, trying to guide him in the direction you favour without having to verbally having to tell him that you want him–

"Now?" He mumbles, surprised. He pulls back slightly. "You don't wanna–?" 

"Wait?" You pant. "No–" 

You lean in to kiss him again, but he pulls back – again. 

"Are you sure?" He presses. "Because I can do more, y'know. Take you on a date and make everything romantic and show you a good time–"

"Steve," you say, licking your lips. "Don't make me wait. Please."

And there's something about begging that sits so prettily on your pouty, swollen lips – something that sets every nerve in his body alight, squeezes his heart tight between its hands. Steve exhales through his nose, shaking his head. 

"Okay, darling."

And so he sheds you of your clothing – helps with every buckle and button and band of leather, presses kisses to every inch of skin bared to him. His fingers are almost trembling in excitement as each piece is removed, and when you stand before him (completely bare, because you had foregone underwear for the skintight dress) he has to simply take a moment and  _ breath _ – because, goddammit, you're more than he had imagined, dreamed.

Your skin isn't completely smooth – little scars and blemishes in some places, a birthmark on your thigh – but lord above, you're beautiful. Sweet and cute and heat pooling beneath your cheeks as he takes you in, nipples pebbling in the air and bottom lip caught between your teeth. 

"It's not fair," you say, looking over him. "I don't wanna be the only one naked."

"Fair enough."

He pulls his shirt over his head and throws his trousers into the pile growing at the end of your bed – and once he's finished he pulls you onto his lap and sets to work on your neck, because he's not gonna give you your first time and  _ not _ leave hickies. 

You breath is heavy against his shoulder, one hand wrapped around his back and the other caught in his straw-coloured locks. He wants to mark you up; such a primal, uncivilised show of territory, and not at all smart when he takes into account the gala that you'd both be attending just 24 hours later – but his lust overwhelms his attention to detail. 

"Ah!" You gasp, suddenly shifting in his lap as he works on a particularly sensitive area on your neck. "G-god, Steve, hurry  _ up _ ."

Steve chuckles. "Calm down. I have to get you–"

"Wet, I know," you huff impatiently, and he's shocked to hear it coming from his princess's mouth – and it shows on his face, apparently. "I've watched porn, you know." 

"It's  _ completely _ different," he tells you, but he continues on anyway. He grasps you by the hips and moves you until you're laying on your back, and you shiver in anticipation as he lowers himself to face your pussy. 

Steve Rogers doesn't find himself cursing all that often nowadays – he'd done it plenty in the army, where swears were substituted for any adjective, noun, verb imaginable. But so close to the most sensitive part of you, he doesn't think any other description will do: "Fucking pretty."

He blows some air on it – watches your hips twitch and your pussy squeeze around nothing – and, God, if he wasn't hard before. He lowers his face closer, and closer… 

You giggle suddenly, and he glances up at you, amused. 

"Your beard tickles," you say, smiling widely, and he can't help but chuckle. You place a hand on his head a moment later, and he continues downwards – he doesn't hesitate, licking a wide, firm stripe up you, from your slit to the perfectly pink button sitting just below a field of curls. Your fingers tighten in his hair, and you let out a gentle little  _ oh _ that has him groaning low in his throat. 

He tries to start out slow, you must give him credit for that – tries to suck gently and not for too long, traces the tip of his tongue softly on your clit, presses his tongue to your weeping slit with the precariousness of a man in love. He loses himself quickly, though, and you don't have any qualms with it–

Because, dear God, if there's one thing Steve Rogers is it's a natural at eating pussy. His end goal is to taste your cum on his tongue and he doesn't often stray from his goals – so he works hard to achieve them, and this is no different. You're panting lowly now, hips beginning to grind against his mouth as he sucks roughly on your clit, rubbing length of his tongue against that precious little bud–

"Oh, Steve," you say, chest heaving. "Oh, oh,  _ oh– _ " 

Your hips lift off the bed, and there's a slight sting in his scalp as you tug hard – but you're panting unevenly, pussy contracting and spasming as he draws your first  _ real _ orgasm from you. 

"There you go," he coos, replacing his tongue with his thumb. "Look at that." 

There's this heady pride that settles on his shoulders, then – he's the first man to give you an orgasm, the first man to taste you on his tongue. Hopefully, the only man to do so. 

He places a kiss or two on your stomach as he rises, grinning like the cat who got the cream – and, in a sense, he did. You're just as smiley, wrapping your weak legs around his waist and pulling him down until you're flush together. Steve almost stutters at the feeling of that sticky, hot skin pressed against his cock. 

"How was that?" He asks, bowing his head towards you. 

"It was stronger," you say, wrinkling your nose. "I mean, stronger than when I touch myself."

"Good. That's good."

Like it's instinct, he begins to move his hips against you. You're still sensitive, still recovering, but you revel in the sloppy, wet kisses you share, the feeling of the head of his cock bumping against your clit. Excitement and anxiety broil beneath your skin. 

"You can still change your mind, you know," he mutters into your ear. "I won't be mad, doll."

"I want this," you whine. "So badly.  _ Please _ ."

He freezes suddenly. "I don't have cond–" 

"I do," you interrupt. You wriggle about underneath him until you can reach your bedside table – and from a little bejeweled box you pull out an assortment of condoms. When you see the surprised look he sends you, you shrug. "I told you I've been thinking about this for a while. I wanted to be prepared."

And so, you prop yourself up on your elbows as he sits back on his haunches, rolling one of many condoms onto his cock. He's practically buzzing, chest shuddering in anticipation as you watch him – and when you lick your lips, eyes trained on his cock, he knows he has to do it now. 

He works one finger into you first (and you're tight and wet and warm, walls silken and soft. He swallows. He can only imagine how you'll feel around him.) –  _ it's okay _ , you say, hips rutting against him. _ I want another one _ . Two, then, and you're gulping, practically riding his hand. Three, and you're wincing slightly, but you manage to get used to it in a few minutes. _ I think I can do it now.  _

He coats his cock with the slippery mess you've made on your pussy, pumps himself a few times as he looks down at you. Flushed and short of breath and adorably waiting for him and  _ his, all his.  _

"God," he mutters to himself, pressing his head against your slit. "You're doing so well, you know that?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah," he says, grunting. With one hand against your clit and the other intertwined with yours, he continues on in, mind going blank as you squeeze around him.  _ Jesus Christ _ . "You're doing amazing, doll. Just a bit more, yeah?" 

"Yeah," you gasp. "Oh god, Steve…" 

"Sh, sh, sh." He rubs harder circles into your clit, watches you gasp and shudder and stretch around him. He bites his lip as he bottoms out, pleasure thrumming through his body. "Look, there we are. Good girl." 

You push yourself back up onto your elbows and simply look at where you're connected. Steve groans at the sight, head falling forward, and he feels like he'll never be able to describe the sensation welling up in his chest – a cacophony of possessiveness and desire and protection and  _ love _ , love, love. 

"Oh god," you mumble, gulping. You fall back onto the cushions. "You're inside me."

_ Damn right he is _ . 

"Can I move, princess?" He asks, watching your face carefully. You take a few more moments, arm stretched over your eyes, but when you do remove it and meet his gaze, you grin in that lazy, fucked out way that he's only ever imagined. 

"Yeah." 

So he begins to thrust slowly, never removing his thumb from your swollen clit. His eyes move almost frantically between where you're joined, and your face – checking for any signs of discomfort or pain.

"You can go faster," you say, reaching a hand out and taking hold of his waist. "Faster, Stevie."

Your wish is his command, of course, and he's only happy to fulfill it – he leans down onto his elbows to rut into you, taking your lips for his own. You respond so easily, like you've been hardwired to react to him and him only, whimpering against his lips as he takes you.

He grunts low in his chest, and not for the first time, he's thankful that these rooms are soundproof. The sound of slapping skin, pants and that delicious squelching from between your thighs is all that can be heard – nobody would be able to mistake what was going on or who it was going in with. 

"Oh," you whimper, breathing suddenly hitching. Your hand clasps shakily over the one he has pressed against your clit. "S-Steve,  _ Steve– _ " 

He can only watch, mouth open in awe as his princess cums around his cock, squeezing and contracting around him – and it's precisely because of that that he feels his own orgasm begin to gain traction, welling up in his loins and threatening to burst–

You blink owlishly once your orgasm has faded, eyes trained on the behemoth of a man grinding desperately into you. You wonder...

"I want you to cum," you murmur suddenly, doe-eyes half-lidded and pupils blown wide, breasts jiggling with each rough, bruising thrust. It's a mind-dizzying contradiction. "Please?... Captain?" 

And, fuck he's gone. He wouldn't have lasted much longer anyway, but  _ Captain _ ? You had too much power over him. He groans, leaning down to bury his face into the crook of your neck, hips rocking more gently into you. You run a hand over his damp back, and he doesn't have to look at you to know you're smiling. 

He's still panting when the last aftershocks of his orgasm mellow out, mouth agape and the ghost of a disbelieving smile on his face. "You've… you've got a  _ filthy _ mouth on you." 

You grin tiredly, wiggling about in a way that makes him grunt from oversensitivity. "You gonna teach me some manners, Cap?" 

He grins, shaking his head – rubs a soothing hand over your stomach as you whine when he pulls himself out, one painstaking inch at a time. "Next time, darlin'."

"Don't threaten me with a good time," you murmur. Your eyes were beginning to flutter shut, but you didn't dare fall asleep as he slipped out of bed. The condom goes in the bin, a bottle of water is fetched from the little fridge by your desk and he's about to fetch a washcloth when you make a whimpering sound. His head snaps towards you instinctively – it's second nature to seek you out when you may be in pain, vulnerable. 

You're making grabby hands at him. 

"You're taking too long."

"You need a lesson in patience too, then," he hums, but he doesn't argue. He foregoes the washcloth and slips back onto the bed, holding himself up over you. "I'm gonna run a bath for you, princess." 

"But I want to  _ sleep _ ."

_ Pretty and pouting and eyes wide and shimmering. _

Steve sighs, but he can't deny that there's a fond smile just  _ aching _ to come alive on his face. He dips his face to the crook of your neck, kissing the bruises he'd artfully left in his wake. 

"Fine," he relents. "But there'll be a bath later."

And there is. (And when he retires to his bedroom for the night Sam catches him in transit. "You smell like cotton candy! It's sublime, bro.")

Steve's last thought before falling asleep is simple –  _ thank God for Hot Girl Summer.  _ Coincidentally, that's your last thought, too. 


End file.
